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The metro doors slide shut, and I'm standing in a carriage that's mostly empty. It's Tuesday morning, the fourth of August, and the city is doing its annual disappearing act. I'm on my way to the bank, because the NIE number I finally got yesterday means I can now attempt the next bureaucratic mountain: opening a Spanish bank account. The train rumbles under the Eixample, and I'm already sweating through my shirt. It's 26 to 30 degrees out there, but the humidity makes it feel like 35. The air conditioning in this carriage is a small miracle.

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I get off at Passeig de Gràcia and walk the few blocks to the CaixaBank branch I've been told handles foreigners well. The streets are quieter than I expected. The festival crowds from Circuit week are still around, I can tell — there are groups of men in bright tank tops comparing maps, and the terrace at Doña Rosa - Cocina Urbana is full of people having late breakfasts. But there's a shift. The businessman in a suit is gone. The mum with the pram and the school run is gone. I'm told that August is when Barcelona exhales. Residents flee to the coast or the mountains, and the centre gets handed over to visitors and the few of us still doing paperwork.

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The bank branch is cool and almost silent. A security guard nods at me. I've got my passport, my NIE certificate, and a copy of my rental contract. The woman at the desk is patient. She speaks English with a strong Catalan accent, and she walks me through the options. For a non-resident account, it's straightforward. Passport, NIE, sometimes a certificate of non-residency. I'm told the big four banks — CaixaBank, BBVA, Banco Sabadell, Santander — all have programs for internationals like me. I go with CaixaBank's HolaBank, because it's designed for this exact situation. She types, clicks, prints. Twenty minutes later, I walk out with a piece of paper that has an IBAN on it. My first Spanish bank account. I feel oddly proud, like I've passed a test.

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I stop at a café on Carrer de la Diputació for a café con leche. It costs about two euros, maybe a bit more in this part of town. I sit at a tiny table by the window and watch the city go by. The tram bells ring somewhere in the distance, and a delivery bike rattles past. There's a guy in a yellow jersey sweeping the pavement. I'm starting to get the rhythm of this place. The morning is for errands. The afternoon is for lunch, then a siesta — even if that's more of a rural thing these days, the idea still shapes the city. Everything slows down between two and five. If you're not a tourist, you learn to work with it, not against it.

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After the coffee, I decide to test out the transit situation, because I've been warned that August is peak renovation season. The metro is a patchwork of closures. Metro L1 is cut between Florida and Plaça de Sants — Torrassa, Santa Eulàlia and Mercat Nou stations are all closed. L9 and L10 Nord have a huge gap between La Sagrera and Onze de Setembre. And the two big central choke points are hit hard: Verdaguer station on L4 is closed, and the L1-L3 interchange corridor at Plaça Catalunya is shut. That means if you want to change lines at Plaça Catalunya, you're coming above ground and walking. I'm told around 36,000 daily August riders are being rerouted onto replacement buses and other lines. It's worth checking the TMB app before you plan anything, because the situation seems to change weekly.

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I buy a T-usual card — the unlimited 30-day pass. It's about 22.80 euros. For someone like me who's here to live, not just visit, it pays for itself within a week. I tap it on the reader at the turnstile and head down to the platform. The train arrives, and it's surprisingly quiet. I grab a seat. I'm heading to Tres Xemeneies, the old power station by the sea, because I've heard there's a spot there where you can see the city from a different angle. The sun is high now, and the light is sharp and white. The metro car rattles, and I think about how different this city feels from the pictures in the travel brochures.

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I emerge at Poble-sec and walk down Avinguda del Paral·lel. The old theatres are here, some of them shuttered, some of them still glowing with neon signs from another era. The streets are empty in that specific way that happens only in August. The air smells of hot pavement and frying oil from a nearby restaurant. I pass a small plaza where old men are playing cards under a plane tree. One of them looks up and nods. I nod back. It feels like a secret, this quiet version of Barcelona.

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I end up at the Fundació Joan Miró, up on Montjuïc. The museum is a white concrete building designed by Josep Lluís Sert, and it sits on the hill like a ship. Inside, the Miró works are all colour and chaos and joy. I'm not a huge art person, but there's something about his blues and reds that feels like summer. The terrace café has a view over the city, and I order a glass of cava — about three euros for a small one, which feels right. The city spreads out below me, the sea glittering at the edge. The Sagrada Família's towers poke up on the horizon like strange chimneys. I could get used to this.

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I check my phone. There's an email from the Ajuntament confirming my empadronamiento appointment for Thursday. That's good. The padrón is the registry card that proves you live where you say you live, and you need it for almost everything here — health care, utility bills, sometimes even a library card. The process is simple enough: you book a cita previa appointment online, show your passport and your rental contract, and they give you a certificate. Easy, as long as you have the paperwork and the patience.

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On the walk back down the hill, I pass the Funicular de Montjuïc station and think about how the city keeps revealing itself. The Barcelona that most travelers see — the Gaudí buildings, the market at La Boqueria, the beach at Barceloneta — is real, but it's only the surface. Underneath is a city of neighbourhoods, of small plazas and morning rituals, of people who leave in August and come back in September. I pass a bodega with a chalkboard sign advertising vermut and olives. I make a note to come back. The vermut ritual is something I want to understand.

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Later, I head to Gràcia for the Fiesta Mayor. I walk up the hill, through streets that get narrower and steeper, until I hit the festival. The whole neighbourhood is draped in tinsel and paper flowers. Each street has its own theme — one is covered in recycled plastic bottles turned into fish, another in hand-painted tiles. The air is thick with the smell of grilled sausage and the sound of music I can't quite place, a mix of Catalan rumba and reggaeton. The plazas are packed, but it's a local crowd. Gràcia's August festival is not for tourists. It's for the people who live here, the ones who didn't flee to the coast. I feel like I'm peeking into a life that usually stays behind closed doors.

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I end up in Plaça del Sol, which is buzzing. There's a stage set up, and a band is playing something that sounds like a raucous cousin of a folk song. I manage to get a drink — a caña, around three euros — and I stand at the edge of the plaza, watching. A group of kids are dancing in a circle. An old woman is selling cold towels on the corner. The sun is starting to go down, and the light turns the buildings a soft orange. I think about the eclipse. It's coming on the twelfth, and I still don't have glasses. I ask a guy with a stack of flyers if he knows where to get them. He shrugs, says to try the optician on Carrer de Verdi. I make a mental note.

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I walk home through the darkening streets, past the Església de Sant Joan, where the bells are ringing for some evening mass. The sound bounces off the stone walls. I think about the passage of time, about how all of this will be different in a few weeks. The festival will end, the tourists will thin out, the residents will trickle back. The city will put its summer clothes away and get back to work. I'm here for the slow drift, the unwinding of the season. I stop at the corner store and buy a bag of ice and a bottle of water. It's been a long day. I unlock my flat, and the fan is already spinning in the bedroom. I lie down and watch the ceiling rotate. Tomorrow, I'll chase the eclipse glasses. Today, I'm just happy to be here.

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That's the thing about Barcelona in August. It's a city that's half empty, but the half that's here is deeply, genuinely alive. The streets are quieter, but the plazas are louder. The museums are less crowded, but the festivals are more local. If you're here in August, you're not really seeing the tourist Barcelona, the one from the postcards. You're seeing the bones of the city, the parts that stay when everyone else leaves. And there's something honest about that. Something raw and real. The cost of living in this city is high — a modest one-bedroom flat in the centre runs about 1,100 to 1,460 euros a month, and the rents are climbing — but for now, in this moment, I'm getting the true, stripped-down version. And I think I like it.

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As I drift off, I hear the distant thump of a party somewhere in the neighbourhood, and the occasional siren of an ambulance on the main road. The cicadas are loud on the balcony, a constant buzz that sounds like the city itself is breathing. Tomorrow is another day of paperwork and small discoveries. The eclipse is in eight days, and I'm determined to be ready. Goodnight, Barcelona.

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Until next time, hola.